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Lewis, M. G. (Matthew Gregory), 1775-1818

"The Monk; a romance"

Ambrosio perceived his mistake,
and replaced the Book upon the Table.
Antonia spoke of her Mother's health with all the enthusiastic
joy of a youthful heart.
'I admire your filial affection,' said the Abbot; 'It proves the
excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a
treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your
affections. The Breast, so capable of fondness for a Parent,
what will it feel for a Lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for
one even now? Tell me, my lovely Daughter; Have you known what
it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: Forget my habit, and
consider me only as a Friend.'
'What it is to love?' said She, repeating his question; 'Oh! yes,
undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.'
'That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt
only for one. Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be
your Husband?'
'Oh! No, indeed!'
This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood:
She knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never
having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day
his Image grew less feebly impressed upon her bosom. Besides,
She thought of an Husband with all a Virgin's terror, and
negatived the Friar's demand without a moment's hesitation.
'And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia? Do you feel no
void in your heart which you fain would have filled up? Do you
heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who
that some one is, you know not? Perceive you not that what
formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? That a
thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprang in
your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described? Or while you
fill every other heart with passion, is it possible that your own
remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye,
that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which
at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye your
words.


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